COLD WAR
by So Guhn
Summary: It's only a matter of who goes first. Russia x America.


a/n: see title.

_COLD WAR_ **; R - drama/romance - Russia x America**

It seemed like to every home America visited, Russia always had his foot at its doorstep one- well, one step ahead of him.

It was immensely frustrating. At Germany's Russia would always be there, hands held on his lap or on the table as he sat, smiling when America would arrive only hours later. It had pissed him off so much that with no doubt to the disdain of everyone else in the room (and to some, utter horror)- that America launched into whatever possible argument that he could with Russia, resulting in the decision that the two sit on opposite sides of the room whenever at Germany's, if just for the safety of everyone around them.

It did not bode well when it seemed like the two were destined for such separation not only at Germany's house, but Korea's, Vietnam's, and Cuba's (only to name a few.)

It was like watching a ticking time bomb whenever the two met. Either Russia would mention that 'my, America just didn't seem to run as fast he used to' or America would underhandedly mention how pale Russia was, no doubt from the lack of warm blood running through his veins for living in such a cold place.

This resulted in the two always trying to leave world meetings at the same time, at the same door, both with a hand to the frame as they bulkily caught hip, arm, or other such limb with each other in prevention of letting the other go first. There had been one meeting to date, that Germany- having a low tolerance for idiocy by anyone (aside from Italy, a fact that escaped no one) became so annoyed by Russia's and America's constant bickering actually aimed to kick America out the door first and settle it all once and for all but by some strain of odd luck upon kicking America, Germany had only succeeded in Russia leaving through the door first.

Russia, though never showing it (unless you were Lithuania) became irritated over the event, for he never did visit Germany's home again for a long time (and so America didn't have to stand on the opposite side of the room any more.)

It did continue however, in many other homes.

Such as Switzerland's.

Which they were at today, Russia as usual, with that smile that wasn't really a smile plastered over his face, arms now propped on the table as he leaned forward toward America like how most of their arguments started; to say... (but static reaches the other's ears for-) now it had escalated that Russia didn't really have to say anything to even America (Russia could be imposing a question to perhaps England and America would instantly have an expression as if he were seeing red), America couldn't help but take offense and vice versa.

Words no longer took enough a toll, the barest motion of the wrist or tilt of the head was another method that created anxiety and paranoia in the both of them.

This is what had set off the eerie quiet- neither wanting to give into the truth that they were afraid of the (potential of the) other. Switzerland irritated, the rest of his guests unsuspecting of this outcome tried to continue discussing world affairs, but usually fell to distressed laughter or trailed train of thoughts as one thought took over:

That ticking time bomb, was it going to explode today?

-----

When Russia had first met him, America had smiled at him (as he did everyone else, everyone else aside from England, because to England America's smile changed completely and did not change at all, least this is what Russia had thought on seeing the two together afterwards) in greeting, hand extended and said,

"Nice to meet you."

No one had ever applied those words to him before.

(That hand that had been warm- not that Russia understood that warmth, because that slight temperature to him was burning, burning on his cold flesh, ironic that the intensity he felt came from someone soft, someone young, someone-)

He didn't find it exactly fair that when America ran through the fields, the large vast fields he did not stumble through the thick snow, and chatter his teeth through bitter cold, all year long. That frozen shoes had the chance to melt and soften as spring came and warm sunshine kissed flowers to open and allow their faces to peer at the heavens.

No, at Russia's it was too cold for that.

And no one came for him in his cold wilderness.

He always had to come to them.

It was to his greatest pleasure and his greatest anxiety that he first thought, "I must also come for America."

Whom his doorstep everyone rushed to.

America. America. America. If America came to your house you'd welcome him, he'd bring you wealth, he'd bring you luck, equality, the idea, the ideal, the actuality of freedom in the flesh exhilarated all those around him. But not Russia, it just stabbed him through. He who bound by rules was always always cold, and no one ever seemed to sincerely welcome him as-

Even though the others could not see (England, France, Germany, China-) they all held their breath at the same time for one unknown reason.

The moment Russia's hand brushed against America's wrist as they were descending down the steps, each seeking his transportation home. That mere touch, recalled every strained haughty word, every deprived look cast, and every breath mingled as one got closer and closer until that wall came up to prevent one action moving forward.

Don't fight. Don't touch. Don't punch, kick, tear, rip, bite-

It seemed like that had to end.

It had to end because Russia couldn't bear looking into America's fierce eyes any more- with the exact same mirroring rage (and he's never felt this heat before, always frozen and stock still thinking his part of the world will always be like this- and it isn't pleasant, or nice, it is a smoldering that starts as if from the bottom of his gut, rising upwards- searing- and Russia wants to tear into America just to sate it, put it out, stop it- because this wasn't how he imagined becoming warm at all) that same desperation and need to prove himself set in his eyes as well.

Russia, the world would be in his hands.

All would willingly come to his doorstep.

But that was not a dream that could come true if they all kept rushing to America, America, America!

It passed far more quickly than all their bouts of bickering, sneering, underhanded jokes (Russia always composed, false warm, pseudo warm, so damn cold-) awful awful sideways glance, (America jokingly, harshly replying or instigating, sometimes becoming aggravated and that is what Russia found he looked forward to the best, yes- get mad America, go ahead. Go ahead.)

And fall.

That one time they found each other staring straight on- from there they could look no other way.

They took each other's lives in that stare.

Russia expects it, expects America to turn at him, yell at him, make the motion to hit him- they have been waiting for it (Russia has been waiting for the chance as well, but whoever slips first slips, and so it has been him, so it has been-) but America keeps walking a few steps down though Russia has stopped. Anticipating that horrible glorious moment everyone has been waiting for to happen between them.

But it's five steps between them already, when America really does pause, (holding at his wrist, ah- he did notice, of course he noticed- Russia had touch him, Russia had touched near his hand, a hand that once held his and-) shoulders briefly trembling, Russia feels that his knees have been shaking this whole time and fights to control them to move no longer.

America turns to look over his shoulder.

And that is it.

Before he turns his head away back again, continuing his journey down those steps.

They already lost their lives.

-----

Russia does not push him down the rest of those steps.

Though he really wants to.

(Yet still searing in his gut, rushing up up up and to his brain, burning in the back of his head, the back of his eyes-) it's alright, everything will be alright.

Because he's going to drag America up the steps to his house one day.


End file.
